Week
Four of AMERICA FIGHTS BACK, Thoughts....
As journalists we go out and get the stories -- the facts. The
attacks on New York and Washington, DC have had many of us thinking
and soul-searching.
Learn about the industry from professionals working in it! Read
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Now, radio and television journalists from all over share their
feelings. If you'd like to share your thoughts send them to
Hal@HalEisner.comNew
York Journal
By Nancy LeMay
My husband and I spent the first week of October in New York;
the trip had been scheduled before September 11 and we did not
cancel. My husband felt strongly that we were needed there by
family and friends (we were), and that going to New York would
be an important political statement. I kept a journal on the
trip and these are some excerpts from it:

<10.1, 8AM at the hotel>
I think that, right now at least, being here is such an act
of defiance that it's making me feel better. The relief in people's
voices- Mom, Carol, Michael, Debbie and Milton- is so palpable
that just being in New York is having the effect I hoped it
would have. For now. There are already souvenirs of the event;
in a store near the hotel there is a small metal casting of
the buildings resting on a map of the world, with 'September
11, 2001' etched on the base. American flags are everywhere,
and there are more large ones here than in LA. Here is a telling
exchange, between my sister and me. I had expressed a desire
to go downtown to the WTC and see it for myself. "Don't go.
You don't want that impressed on your memory forever..." is
my sister's advice. {She was especially concerned about the
smell- she had heard it was very strong. It proved not to be}.
For me-it already is impressed on my memory forever, and it
needs to be cemented there in a way I can really use-in a physical
reality which is more personal.

<1:25PM>
I knew the view down 6th Avenue would be different; what I did
not realize is how completely open the space around the Trade
Center would be. Now, instead of the buildings right in front
of the WTC, and then each of the towers, you see American Express
and then the World Financial Center buildings immediately to
the south-and much too much blue sky. What must that {the attack}
have looked like from up here on 50th Street? It must have been
beyond comprehension. Buildings are not supposed to vanish.
The city is quiet and subdued. The people are subdued; coffee
shops and restaurants do not play music, or if they do it is
very soft music. This is odd, but it reminds me of how powerful
a collective experience this is for all these millions of people.
There is very little laughter. I am convinced now that getting
as close to the WTC as possible is essential.

<11:55PM>
I have the sense that I am living in the past. That there is
a time machine through which we have suddenly been propelled,
back to Europe during the '40's- back to London during the Blitz.
It is this feeling of siege-we are a target. We look to the
skies when we notice a jet overhead-we turn to see who is driving
the gas tanker that's just passed us on Second Avenue. And its'
the feeling, too, that in some measure life has stopped as we
try to regain our breath and balance. In my private moments
it feels as if I can't hold any air in my lungs- I can't get
my breath. When the fear creeps back in, (which it does in unpredictable
moments), I do again feel horribly alone and vulnerable. When
I'm talking with my friends I feel empowered. I'm doing something-the
only thing I actually can do; to continue to live my life. I
do love my city as if it were a person.

<10.3 Heading downtown to WTC>
We came up out of the subway at Canal and Lafayette by mistake;
we were a bit east and a lot north of where I wanted to be-City
Hall. I was disoriented-which street is which and where do I
go? Quickly I realized the problem: there were no Towers to
use for orientation. But we found our way. Chambers Street at
Greenwich Street was as close as we could get-(about 5 blocks
away), and police lines held there a changing group of about
30 or so people. Greenwich ended at a pile of rubble at least
4 or 5 stories high; it was mainly a terra-cotta color, with
white smoke rising up in front of and behind it . To the left
and the right of this enormous pile were the remains of the
low black buildings which shouldered up to the North Tower-the
place where I used to get my coffee had been in the building
on the left {5 World Trade Center) I prevented myself from crying
as I stood there, but I did shed tears. Being able now to compare
the American Express building (where I had worked in 1989) to
what was- and should still be-it's partners across the street
was really the heart of this compelling reality. I could now
see in my mind's eye the plane screaming overhead, coming fast
from behind me and slamming into the North Tower. I can hear
it and sense the impact in my chest. And, in true 1:1 scale,
I can see it collapse behind waves of people running toward
me, followed by billowing smoke, paper and disintegrating concrete.
American Express, shining here in the sun is, at about 50 stories,
roughly half the height of the North Tower. I remember this,
and the scale becomes overwhelming.

<10.5>
New Yorkers are, and will continue to be, haunted by this event.
So will those who visit the city regularly; the hole left by
the missing towers is immense and is noticeable from the near
parts of three states, not to mention nearly every corner of
the city. On the subway you notice vacant stares. People are
not reading books and magazines as they usually do; they are
sitting in thought and you see that the thoughts disturb them.
The trip greatly eased my fears;
I think this is true for two reasons. We were there for our
family and friends in what had to be their darkest hour, and
the act of coming together helped everyone, including my husband
and me. We got as much as we gave to the folks we love. (I felt
an unexplainable love for 8 million people I don't even know.)
And second-we faced our fears. Looking directly at this atrocity
did make it even more personal and real for me, and steeled
me for what is to come. This will continue to be an experience
unlike anything our generation has ever known. It's time to
be the biggest people we can be.

The
One Month Anniversary
By Matt Tombers

It is the one month anniversary of the disaster at the World
Trade Center. What do we call it, this earthquake in the civic
seam of our world? A disaster, an attack, the event, the incident,
the tragedy? Iíve heard each of those words used to describe
the events of September 11, 2001.

We crossed the Rubicon in some way that day. This afternoon
I spent some time on the phone with an old friend in Los Angeles,
who was convinced "it" would all be over within a year. If "it"
werenít, weíd attack! More than we are now! What, I wondered,
would we exactly attack?

Terrorists arenít countries. Thatís what makes this so scary.
Another friend had dinner with me on Monday night and told me
that every reaction she had felt, wrong. She didnít know how
to process all of this. Living both in the Midwest and on the
West Coast, she was distant physically from this but she is
very much a citizen of this country. Sheís not alone.

Almost everyone I know, especially those outside of New York
and Washington, donít know exactly what to feel. Her reaction
is the same as my sister-in-lawís or other friends. How do I
deal with this? Thatís what I was thinking as I walked around
lower Manhattan this late morning. Itís a glorious day in Manhattan,
all up and down the east coast. It is as gloriously beautiful
a day as September 11th was. Beautiful days fill us with a sense
of dread these days Ė or they do at least to me -- but I donít
think I am the only person who casts an occasional anxious look
at the sky, just to be certain.

Today, for the first time I went down close to Ground Zero,
as close as you can get, right up to the edge of the barricade.
Wisps of smoke curl up to the sky, still. And where those buildings
once stood is a pile of dark rubble, eerie in its black grey
burned hulk that suggests what it once was. But looking at it
this morning, there was little that suggested this was the place
from which rose two of the tallest buildings in the world. Goosebumps
went up my skin.

As I walked back uptown, I wondered if Aeneas had goose bumps
like this when he turned his back for the last time on fallen
Troy, smoldering in its ruins as he gathered his little tribe
of followers to set off to found what would become Rome. Everything
we do seems fraught with meaning.

With news reports telling us another attack could be imminent,
good-byes are more meaningful and "be safe" has become the new
farewell. Against this backdrop of confusion and disorientation
and fear, there is a new normalcy which is falling upon New
York. Cab drivers honk their horns at one another, people curse.
It is almost a relief to hear these sounds of civic disorder.
People are attending the theatre again. Broadway attendance
is below last year at this time but itís not catastrophic. Upscale
restaurants tend to be empty, pubs tend to be full.

In one of them last night, meeting briefly with a literary friend,
a book publisher cast into the world of freelancers by this
past yearís economic decline, I witnessed a group, much younger
than me, play with each other in ways that seemed "normal".
As in the way they might have acted before all of this began.
The cry seems to be: give me comfort food and give me beer.
Send over that order of French Fries! I feel like a malt, either
with ice cream or ten years old.

We are attempting to act normal, to attempt to find out what
is normal today, October 11th. We are not normal. Sunday night,
as bombing began in Afghanistan, I drove back into New York
from a weekend in D.C. where I had attended the Human Rights
Commission Dinner.

As we drove back into the city, a difficult journey was made
longer by the security measures in place. Going over the George
Washington Bridge, state troopers watched us go by, shotguns
at their side, waiting. Cars were searched one by one as they
entered the Lincoln Tunnel.

In a meeting Tuesday morning I met with someone who had spent
two hours in a taxi because he did not want to take a subway.
Leaving there I was off to another meeting but I never made
it because streets were so clogged I had to reschedule. Fifth
Avenue was closed; east-west streets in the 40ís were also.
The man I was to meet said not to worry. The same thing had
happened to him. Third Avenue had been closed because of a bomb
threat.

For another of my clients, I walked to a meeting south of Canal
Street, past the guards, both police and National Guard, and
thought about my cousin, Marion. Now in her eighties and living
in the great American Midwest, Marion talks about how she lived
in New York during "the war years." As I walk south on Lafayette,
past the soldiers and police, watching the soft white curls
of the still smoldering fires at Ground Zero, I wonder: am I
living in New York during the war years?